Help Me Through The Night
by AlihandriaEllis
Summary: Larissa never fit in. From the orphanage she was raised to her new found father, she doesn't belong. One thing is for sure; Mycroft Holmes has never needed a daughter. So here she is, dumped with her uncle and oh so very alone. But maybe she isn't as alone as she thinks. This is the story of Larissa Holmes, of the family she forged and the hearts that broke to get there.
1. Hello, I Love You

**Well, Sherlock story, take two. Cheers. Hi, I'm Ali, I write random shit and publish it on the interwebs. Nuff said. So, here is my new brain child. Have fun.**

**UPDATE: Seeing as two people had problems with the language, I'm going through and cleaning it up. You're welcome!**

**Disclaimer: Yes, I own Sherlock. THEY'RE MIIIIINE. Okay, really no. I just rent them to be my little flesh-puppets.**

Well, one thing is official. My dad is a complete jerk. Mycroft Holmes. Why did _he _have to go get my mom knocked up? I mean, I've heard of some crappy dads but he most certainly takes the cake.

Curse my life.

Maybe I should back up a bit. This is all probably as confusing to you. Hell, it's confusing as to me. And I have to live it. So here's the story of my incredibly screwed up life. God, why do I have to be a Holmes?

The name's Larissa. No middle name. And up until quite recently, no last name either. Just Larissa. Thanks, Mom. Never got to meet her. My mom, I mean. She apparently had an one-night thing with father dearest and got preggo with me. My guess is that alcohol was involved.

Anyway, Mom dies and says in her will that I'm her child. She doesn't leave me anything, though. She just acknowledges my existence. Hello, you're my spawn, won't you tell me your name sort of thing. You know, maybe it is a good thing I grew up in an orphanage. Both sides of my family seem pretty screwed up.

So, back to my childhood. I grew up in an orphanage, which sounds much worse than it actually is. People did actually care about each other. More than care, actually. None of us had anywhere else to go, so we learned to put up with each other. I was still the loner, though. While other people were putting up Justin Bieber posters, I was blasting Metallica whilst putting up my ameture drawings of Eddie. Drawing is basically my only talent. Well, art in general. From a young age, it just clicked for me. Tablets, sculpture, jewelry, paints, pencils...it just works.

Besides for that, I really have no redeeming features, personality-wise. I really don't care about school, my musical talent is non-existent and I'm arguably the most pathetic athlete to ever walk the planet.

Looks-wise, I have pitch-black, curly hair that is terrible to control. My nose, mouth and cheekbones are all sharp and pointed, with definite lines. You can basically see through my skin, it's so pale. The fact that I told the sun it could kiss my ass probably doesn't help, though. I've always been taller than the average person, so all eyes are immediately drawn to me. My eyes are this grey that look like the sky right before it decides to dump six inches of rain on you. I look intimidating and more than a bit scary.

I honestly have never cared about how my face is laid out. There's nothing I can do to change that. That doesn't mean I don't take pride in my appearance, though. Even if I don't blend in. I take my fashion inspiration from Joe Elliott. Sue me.

Anyway, that was massively off-topic. Point is, I most certainly am not made to be a Holmes. Yet here we are.

My dad is apparently very busy, due to the fact that he sent me to live with my uncle without even meeting me first. Oh, and when I say live with, I mean he gave me the flat below theirs. Feeling the love yet?

You know, maybe this won't be so bad. I get to blast my music whenever I want to, eat whatever I want to and just screw around. As soon as I get there.

Buildings fly from behind the windows I'm gazing through, waiting to reach my new home. All my furniture will already be set up, so I'll just have to unpack. Shouldn't be too hard.

Just as I complete this thought, we pull up to a building. 221 Baker Street. Home sweet home.

An elderly woman is standing at the door. She has been waiting for us, I can tell.

"Oh, hello there! You must be Sherlock's niece. You look just like him!" she grins at me before wrapping me in a motherly embrace. I awkwardly pat her on the back, but a slight smile touches my lips. Maybe things will be okay.

After a few more minutes of the necessary pleasantries, I'm finally taken to 221 A Baker Street. My new home. The walls are covered in some flowery black wallpaper. I make a mental note to cover my walls with as much stuff as possible.

I walk in further and am met with a side hallway, which turns out to be my kitchen. The thought makes me smirk, seeing as I can barely cook ramen. The front hall leads to a big room, which has a plain black table and a comfortable-looking couch, as well as a few chairs and a telly.

There are three doors branching from there. I open the first one and am met with what looks to be the laundry room. Washer, dryer...yepp. All my clothes go here.

The second one opens into a completely blank room. The floor is made of concrete, a stark contrast to the wooden floors that permeate through the rest of the flat. Mrs. Hudson says something about contractors not having time to finish the room, but I barely hear her. I'm too bloody enraptured by this place. A small window is on the wall, providing ventilation. The walls are a plain white. This will be my art room. It's utterly perfect. I could do whatever in here and not damage anything.

My bedroom is behind the third door. It's cozy and has a nice, cream-colored bed. There is potential in this room. A door opens to a bathroom and my tour is complete.

"Let me know if you need anything, dear," Mrs. Hudson smiles before leaving. I smile back before turning to face the boxes that need unpacking. But you know what? I've had a long day. So I ignore them and turn to the TV. Doctor Who will be on soon. Life can wait.

**Okay, that's it. Float me a review if you like it, please! Oh, and about the chapter titles. I'm going to name them after songs that sort of fit the mood and then put a little reference to the song in the chapter. This one should be pretty obvious :) Updates come Fridays. So, review, love, bye!**


	2. Wherever I May Roam

**Soo...no reviews. This has never happened before. But whatever. I'll just keep writing. Someone will review eventually. Thank you to JadeSparrow92 for putting me on favorite and alert, though!**

**Here it is!**

**Disclaimer: No, no and I'll even say it in Spanish for you. No.**

I blink as sunlight streams through my window, hitting my face. Scowling, I move to grab a pillow to cover my face, when I realize I'm not on my bed. I'm on an unfamiliar black, leather sofa. Groaning, I sit up and remember _exactly_ where I am.

"Crap," I mutter under my breath, remembering the boxes I have to unpack. Rifling through the kitchen, I find absolutely nothing in the cupboards. Not even a saucepan. Looks like I need to go shopping, too. My stomach makes a noise, reminding me that food was my priority right now.

Digging through boxes, I hunt down a pair of undies, bleach-stained jeans, a torn-up tee and a tank top to wear under it. My hair goes up in a sloppy ponytail. I'm sure I look like a mess right now, but I really don't care. Grabbing a bag, I open my front door and almost run into some dude who was coming down the stairs.

"Oh, sorry," we say at the same time. It's quiet for a second before the guy speaks up.

"Well, I'm John Watson. I live in the flat upstairs from you," He smiles. John looks to be in his forties, but not in a bad way. He's got sandy brown hair and grinning blue eyes. And dear lord, is he short. I must have three inches on him. The jumper he's wearing looks faded and well-loved, so I'm guessing it's his favorite. He clears his throat and I realize social protocol states that I now say something.

"I'm Larissa. Well, Larissa Holmes, I guess. I'm never going to get used to that," I mutter the last bit to myself.

"Oh, you must be Sherlock's niece!" he exclaims. I just nodded. Do I even get a name or should I just be "Sherlock's Niece"?

John continues to prattle on about being roommates with my uncle as I walk out to my car. Oh, when I say car, I mean a 1994 Ford truck that's basically wallpapered in bumper stickers. It was abandoned, but one of the kids at the orphanage fixed it up and gave it to me before he left. It's name is Steve. The car, I mean. I named it Steve.

Somehow, I seem to be agreeing with John that getting help shopping would be a good idea. Yet more proof that I should never let my mouth do it's own thing. Either way, he gets into the passenger seat. While sliding the key into the ignition, I realize that my Pyromania cassette is still loaded in the radio. Oh well . If I'm going to drive with John, then he has to live with my music tastes.

Which is how we end up screaming along to Rock Rock a few minutes later. Turns out he saw Def Leppard live in '88. Lucky bastard.

"So, how did you get into rock?" John asks me over the blaring guitar.

"Some of the older kids at the orphanage listened to it. From the first time I heard Number of the Beast, I was hooked," I explain as I turn into Wal-Mart. I find a parking spot, cut the ignition and hop out. And so our shopping adventure begins.

I'm putting a toaster that reads I Heart Toast on the side into my cart as John pulls up beside me, cart loaded with food. Oh, food would be good too. I make an immediate beeline for the instant noodle section, ignoring John's belated shout that processed foods aren't good for you.

So, a hour and several cups of roast beef ramen later, we're back in my truck heading home. Well, Baker Street. Wherever I lay my head is home to me, so that's it right now. I grab several boxes and turn around to go inside, arms about to fall off due to carrying too much weight. John grabs about twice as much as I'm carrying and passes me. Then, just as I'm about to go inside, a voice out of nowhere says "Let me help you with that."

Someone grabs the rest of the stuff from my car. I spin around to get a better look and find my stomach sinking with what I see. A tall, pale man with black curls and pointed features picking up the toaster from the trunk. Sherlock. No question. He turns slowly and smiles at me.

"Hello, Larissa."

**BOOM CLIFFHANGER. Well, I'm having a lot of fun writing this story, so I'll just keep at it. But I'll have more motivation to write if I get reviews. So please review. Thanks and bye!**


	3. Dirty Laundry

**Well, it's technically not Friday. Whatever. You lot deserve a chapter. Major kudos to JadeSparrow92, PhoenixLoveStory and two guest reviewers for reviewing. You guys made my night. Thanks so much.**

**This is a pretty short chapter. I'm sorry, I just had the week from hell. Be thankful you get anything :) So here it is. Larissa meets Sherlock. It doesn't end well.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock ain't mine, sorry :P**

For the first time in my life, I am honestly speechless. Completely without words. I mean, wow. This never happens to me.

"Umm..." I stammer, trying not to dump my armful of crap on the ground. Sherlock looks me over and raises an eyebrow at me.

"I was expecting a bit more intelligence from a Holmes," he smirks and my speechlessness is suddenly replaced with an urge to punch him in the face. I scowl and turn around, heading for my apartment. If I am going to do something rash, it would be best to not do it while I'm holding a box of knives.

Setting my armload down, I turn to my uncle, who thankfully has set down my toaster. I like toast, so I would feel bad if that got hurt, should things turn ugly.

"Oh, can we talk now?" he says in the most sarcastic, obnoxious voice. I heavily debate the consequences of breaking his nose here but rule it out. I don't want to end up in some boarding school of my father's choosing.

"What is your problem?" I growl, stepping forward. He seems to find this amusing.

"Oh, you are not going to last five minutes at family reunions," Sherlock smiles. Somehow, he seems to like kicking people when they're down. I hate people like that.

"And why do you say that?" my voice is a hiss now, a silent warning for him to watch his step.

"You're stubborn and hot-headed, you have a temper and aren't particularly clever, but almost no one is," he explains. It's the clever bit that gets to me. No one seems to get that I am plenty clever, but choose not to act like it.

"Get out," I growl. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at me.

"What?"

"Pick up your obnoxious, sociopathic arse and get the hell out of my flat. I'm not asking," He is going to learn very quickly that I don't take kindly to insult.

"Oh, and how do you know I'm a sociopath?" he asks. I glare at him, but grit my teeth and respond.

"You obviously don't know a godforsaken thing about human emotions, act with absolutely no concern about my feelings and, judging by John's description of you, can't keep a relationship to save your life. I'd either call you high-functioning sociopath or someone with Asperger's, leaning towards sociopath," I mutter. He smiles slightly and turns to leave, but I still hear his mutter of "Good."

Dear God, why am I here?

**God, it's so short...it burns. So, did I do Sherlock ok? I'm a bit worried about writing him OOC. So, review, review, review! Love you all, bye~**


	4. You Give Love a Bad Name

**Soo...welcome to another part of my writing. I'll be on a roll for a while and then just disappear for a few weeks. Sorry, life just got in the way of writing. It sucks, but there's nothing I can do about it.**

**Thanks to all who review, favorite and follow!**

**So, Sherlock fluff this chapter. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Nope**

Well, I change into my lazy clothes and proceed to find homes for all the stuff I just bought and begin to unpack my other belongings. Just as I chuck my Union Jack throw pillow onto the bed, I hear a knocking at the door. I dodge the sofa and open my front door to find John standing there with some delish-smelling Italian food and Sherlock in tow.

"What?" I ask, although I smile a little bit. John raises the bag and I let them in.

"I figured you may want food and some company," John smiles as he sets the bag down. I shrug and grab a few glasses and plates.

The plates are soon filled with spaghetti and breadsticks. I consume a good portion of my plate before noticing Uncle Dearest hasn't touched his yet.

"Aren't you going to eat anything?" the question slips out of my mouth despite my firm dislike of him.

"I don't eat while I'm working," Sherlock mutters, looking off into the distance. The strange thing is that statement actually makes complete sense to me. I'll just lose myself in whatever I'm doing and, next thing I know, it's two days later and I haven't showered, eaten or slept. Then I crash and relax for a while, although I'm guessing Sherlock skips the crashing bit. He is one person I have a hard time seeing in PJs.

"So, where did you grow up?" John asks. I open my mouth to respond, but Sherlock beats me to it.

"Oh, come on John, It's obvious. She had to be adopted but didn't live with her mother and most certainly didn't live with Mycroft, which implies she grew up in an orphanage. Her sweatpants are much too big for her, especially around the waist, implying they were originally made for a man, so a co-ed facility. The artwork on the walls is fairly expensive, implying she was raised in a wealthier part of town. Co-ed orphanage that's wealthy. St. John's Orphanage."

I just blink at Sherlock and really hope my jaw isn't on the floor. He's quite observant. Dead wrong, but quite observant.

"Actually, I was raised at the Children's Orphanage downtown," I smirk. Sherlock looks at me confusedly. "The paintings on the walls are mine. I sell them to buy supplies. The rest was dead-on, though."

"Well, that's to be expected. You have impressive painting skills for someone of your age," Sherlock comments. His compliment makes me feel a lot more proud of myself than it should, but whatever.

Well, about thirty seconds later, Sherlock yells something about having it, a woman's coat and a taco and runs out the door. John at least has the courtesy to say goodnight on the way out.

Life settles into a pretty normal routine at 221 A after that night. I already know all the things I'm supposedly going to be taught in homeschool this year, so my days are devoted to music, art and telly. John and Mrs. Hudson will pop in on occasion, but for the most part I'm left alone.

About a month passes before I see Sherlock again, though. And I'll admit, him walking in with a sizable head wound and asking if I know first aid wasn't what I had in mind for little our family reunion.

"Isn't John a doctor?" I ask as I dab his wound with rubbing alcohol. Sherlock sits there like a statue as the abrasive liquid enters the gash that mars his otherwise porcelain forehead.

"John is...busy at the moment," Sherlock mutters and I recall the ditzy-looking blonde who had walked up the stairs a while earlier. Did John have a date? With a _woman_?

"Well, good for John," I smile as I tape a bandage to his head.

"Larissa, do you think I am an...acceptable guardian?" Sherlock's question comes out blue. I turn and suddenly remember the danger of him having a concussion.

I grab a penlight and shine it in his eyes as I formulate my answer. Yepp, they aren't working properly. It looks like Sherlock's staying here tonight.

"I think you're an...okay uncle," I say as diplomatically as possible. Sherlock seems to pick up on what I'm not saying, though.

"I'm sorry. I'll have to try harder," he mumbles as I guide him to the couch. Yes, there is definitely brain injury going on here.

Sherlock falls asleep almost as soon as his head touches a pillow. He looks almost childlike when he sleeps. His legs tuck up to his chest and he snores lightly. This opportunity is more than I can pass up. Reaching for my sketchbook, I position myself where I have the best view of him.

A hour flies by and an image appears on my paper. As I sit here blinking at it, I start to feel just a hint of hope. Sure, he shot me in the heart like the rest of my family, but it seems like he's the only one who may, deep down, actually care.

**Yay, fluff. So, reviews make me seriously want to write more. Review if ye want more, goshdarnit! Well, love you all, bye!**


	5. Life in the Fast Lane

**Okay, new chapter, although not my best. It's an intro to a very important thingie, though. So pay attention :)**

**THEY'RE FILMING SEASON THREE SQUEEEEEEEEEEE!**

**Yeah. I just imploded with happy. Deal with it.**

**Well, this chapter has some fairly gross stuff involving a crime scene. Fairly important gross stuff, but gross stuff none the less. It's not graphic or anything, I promise :)**

**So, here it is.**

**Disclaimer: The cast of Sherlock are the flesh-puppets I rent. Not own. Rent.**

"Get some shoes on. We're going out," Sherlock opens my door without knocking and yells this to me as I'm devouring a bowl of cornflakes. I scowl and am tempted to tell him to sod off, but hell knows no wrath like a determined Sherlock Holmes. Man, does it make me lose my mind.

I pull combat boots onto my feet and run out the door, catching up to John on my way out.

"What's going on?" I ask, slowing to a brisk walk.

"We have a case and Sherlock thinks your artistic skills may be useful," John explains as we hop into a cab. I've never understood Sherlock's obsession with cabs. Cars are so much easier.

The ride goes by in relative silence as I stare out the window, twisting a skull ring I had slid on my finger a while earlier. What Sherlock and John do isn't safe. And here I am, getting pulled into it. Bloody brilliant, ain't it?

The car stops and we get out as John pays the cabbie driver. Then we walk into a building and are stopped by a bunch of police tape.

"Who is she?" A woman walks over to Sherlock and glares pointedly at me as she crosses her arms. I immediately go on the defensive.

"My name is Larissa Holmes, I'm Sherlock's niece. What does it matter to you?" I say cooly. Really, it's about the closest I can get to telling her to sod off without actually telling her to sod off.

"Why aren't you in school?" is her next question. My dislike for her turns to hatred pretty quickly. Oh, there's another thing about me. I've got one hell of a temper.

"I'm homeschooled," I glare at her, silently daring her to say something. Instead of talking to me, she turns to Sherlock.

"A crime scene is no place for a kid," she scowls. Okay, she has crossed a line here.

"I'm seventeen, hardly a kid. And it is really none of your goddamned business, is it?" I snap. My hands turn to fists and I can feel the blood rushing to my head. God, do I want to punch her. Silently, I count to ten and will my anger to slow slightly.

"Oh, she's so your niece, freak. Have fun with your little crime scene," She steps aside, letting us by. I give her one last toxic glare and walk by, kicking a wall as soon as she's out of sight.

"Who the hell was that?" I growl, still plenty touchy.

"That was the joy that is Sgt. Donovan," Sherlock says as he adjusts his sleeves and guides me to a door, giving me a pair of gloves to put on.

"What a bitch," I mutter as I walk into the room. Sherlock smirks and smiles, a slight bit of pride on his face. Then I really see the crime scene and get a sudden urge to puke.

There's a body. A dead, human body. And that's not even the worst bit. The worst bit is that someone took some of the blood from the corpse and painted something around it. Then the smell hits me and I immediately run for a bathroom.

I return ten minutes later, pride less than intact. Sherlock seems to of been waiting for me to finish dispelling my cornflakes and now gestures to the body.

"What do you make of it?" he asks.

"Well, it's a painting. Made of _blood_." I observe, still on the edge of hysteria. Taking a few deep breaths through my mouth, I come a little bit closer.

The painting seems to be some sort of gang sign, but I'm not sure. It looked a bit like a skull, but with ornate swirls running through it.

"Whomever did this used a brush. Acrylic, about a centimeter long," I say, noticing the streak patterns and the lone hair that stuck to the bloo-no. Just think of it as dark red paint. It's just paint.

"Whoever did this had classical training. They took a lot of time to do this, enough time that it started drying as they painted," I gesture to the areas where the "paint" was layered on thicker than other places and gloppy, like someone had been moving it as it was drying. No, not drying. Clotting.

Just thinking the last bit makes me want to puke again. I tilt my head and force the nausea back. The swirls are bothering me, though. There's something about them I recognize, but I just can't find it. Suddenly, I hear Sherlock shout in glee.

"Writing! The swirls are Japanese!" Sherlock yells and I mentally kick myself. Of course. How on earth does someone watch as much anime as I do and not recognize Japanese. God, am I stupid.

As Sherlock babbles to the workers there, I go find someplace to throw up again. One thing I don't notice, though, is the gaze of a short, yet sturdy asian man from across the street. One thing I don't know is how much things are going to change for us all. One thing I don't know is how close to Sherlock I am about to become.

**Yay, foreshadowing. Much drama to come, I look forward to it :) Reviewers get a hug via PM, flamers make me cry in my emo corner. Love you all, BYE**


	6. Message in a Bottle

**So. Short chapter. Sorry, our internet connection went to hell because a major Dutch web provider had a fight with spamcatcher, so they shut down their servers. Which tells us it's perfectly reasonable for two major businesses to act like two-year olds. So instead of writing, I dealt with Martin-Depriviation by watching Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It made me happy ^^**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, seasons would come out every 6 months, like a normal, non-fan-abusing TV show. The year and a half wait, however, tells us that I don't in fact own Sherlock.**

I wake up the next day in Sherlock's bed. Which is, to say the least, freaky as hell. Especially seeing as I wasn't wearing pants. So I curse a minute, grab the white, satin-feeling sheets around my midsection and storm downstairs.

"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?" I scream as I barge into the living room. Judging by the five shades of maroon John just turned, I can safely say he isn't behind this. Which only leaves one person. Sherlock.

"You fell asleep on the cab home, so I brought you here," he says without missing a beat _or_ looking up from his current experiment.

"Why didn't you just, oh, I dunno, _wake me up!_" I growled. "And where are my pants. Oh, and _why_ did you _remove_ my pants in the first place?"

"Your pants were sitting on the bed. You seemed comfortable, so I didn't wake you," Sherlock looks up from his project, glances at my face and looks to John.

"Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah."

I have the feeling they have this problem more often than I'd like to believe. Or maybe Sherlock's just a git. Or maybe both. Who knows anymore...

"Sherlock, _why_ did you remove my pants in the first place?" I repeat, anger slowly being replaced with exasperation.

"You wouldn't of slept as well in them."

And there, in a nutshell, is something about Sherlock that annoys the crap out of me. his complete lack of understanding about certain social norms. Well, one thing's for sure. I'm sending out an SOS.

After putting my pants back on, I walk downstairs and take a piece of toast, nibbling peckishly. I still don't have my appetite fully back after yesterday's events.

Sherlock's phone beeps and he opens it, looking at what seems to be a text. And then the unexpected happens. His eyes widen and he calls John in a slightly shaky voice.

John comes over and glances at whatever is troubling Sherlock. Then he drops his tea mug. They both look up at me in unison.

"Umm...what's going on?" I ask, standing up. "John? Sherlock?"

"Stay here. I need to get Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock stands up and storms downstairs.

"Yeah, Larissa, just...stay," John stammers and runs after Sherlock.

As soon as John disappears through the doorway, I grab Sherlock's phone and look at what's bothering them. I really wish I didn't see it, though.

It's a text from Lestrade. But it's not the text itself that concerns me. It's the photo that's attached. A photo of a crime scene virtually identical to the one I saw yesterday, except for one thing; the words "Well, done, Larissa. You're next." painted in blood above the decorative image.

**...so I target my character with a serial killer. This shall be fun ):) So, reviewers get a virtual-glomp. Flamers get sent to Mordor to chill with that freaky spider. Take your pick. Bye.**


	7. Too Much Time on my Hands

**Well, I suck. I blame track for this being so bloody late. I've had a lot less time on my hands lately, so updates may be less frequent. We'll see :)**

**Now, on to a more serious topic. Unless you live under a rock, you've probably heard about the bastards that lit two homemade bombs off at the Boston Marathon that hurt around 150 people and killed 3, including a 8-year old boy. I don't know how much this is worth, but I just want Boston to know we've been thinking and praying for them. And I'd also like to thank the first responders for making sure the death toll wasn't higher. You are a fantastic example of humanity. We love you all. **

**So, I'm pretty sure that's it. Here it is. Sorry it's short.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything**

I drop the phone and it hits the ground, battery flying out with a resounding clatter that pierces through the silence of the flat. You're next. Someone's out to kill me. Crap. This is not a good way to start a day.

"Larissa, are you-" John runs in and sees both the phone on the floor and the look on my face. He suddenly switches gears from protective to comforting. "Larissa, they won't get you, don't worry. We'll stop them."

"Okay, Larissa, you're moving in with us now. You are not to leave this flat. John, where's my phone, I need to text Lestrade..." Sherlock yells as he comes up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson in tow. I walk over to the couch and sit down. What are the odds I'm in shock right now?

"Sherlock, can I get my stuff?" I ask after a few minutes. I'm not going to fight him on this one. If Sherlock thinks it's safer for me to stay here, it's safer to stay here.

"Larissa, why do you keep a sketchpad in your sock drawer?" Sherlock asks me a few minutes later as I'm stuffing a duffel bag with all my stuff.

"It's where I keep private things," I say as I slip it into my bag without even a hint of the loving caress I usually give the leather binding of the journal.

"A sock drawer is a predictable place to hide such a thing. You should find someplace else," Sherlock says. I just roll my eyes and finish stuffing clothes in the bag.

"Here, make yourself useful," I mutter as I hand Sherlock a record player, armful of records under my arm.

Sherlock seems to pick up on the fact that I'm not a happy camper right now, so he stays blessedly silent as I pack up the rest of my things and hightail it to 221B Baker Street.

The windows get covered with wooden planks, the door gets a few more locks and iron supports and I settle into the bathroom, which is, apparently the safest place in the house. That doesn't, however, mean that it's comfortable by any stretch of the imagination. Yet it's where I am to remain when no one else is home, which is almost never, these days. Is it any wonder I'm not crazy?

I'm pretty sure I have an armed guard, plus a John and a Sherlock. Right now, I don't think the kidnapper has a snowball's chance in hell of getting at me, which is a relief. I do, however, miss the outside world. But right now this is my only chance of ensured survival, so oh well.

"Sherlock?" I ask one morning through a mouthful of toast.

"Yes?" he doesn't look up from his experiment.

"Why are they coming after me?I didn't really do anything at the crime scene except puke and say a few things about the brushes he or she may of used. You solved it, not me. They should be after you. It's pretty stupid, if you ask me..." I ramble, mostly to myself as I stir a spoonful of sugar into my tea. It's then that Sherlock, stands straight up, goes as stiff as a board and runs out of the room, whispering something that sounds like Moriarty under his breath.

I don't know who the hell this "Moriarty" dude is, but if he's enough to freak Sherlock like that, I don't like the sound of him at all.

**You all knew I had to go there :) Reviewers get cupcakes, so review! Love you all, bye**


	8. Fear of the Dark

**Well. This is awkward. I disappear off the face of the internet for two MONTHS and return with a dinky little shameful chapter to make up for it. I understand if I wake up tomorrow with a mob outside my house with spears and pitchforks.**

**Really, though, I'm sorry I disappeared and I'm trying to get back to writing regularly. On the plus side, the writer's block that I've had for the past eon went away and I'm now on a roll. I've got writer's diarrhea!**

**I'm also trying to make a nice, pretty cover for this, so just FWI that's changing soonish.**

**Also, if anyone wants to beta this, I'd love them forever. Drop me a PM!**

**So, that just about rounds out this chapter's ramblings. Have a chapter on me :)**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own Sherlock and all his pals/archenemies/irritating people he tolerates :'(**

It's a Thursday in the middle of October when it happens. I wake up in the bathtub, just like normal. I hear movement outside, so I get up and walk out, assuming it's either John or Sherlock. Instead, a random guy in a suit is walking around eating an apple. Suddenly, I'm wide awake.

"Hello, Larissa," he says without looking up.

"Who the hell are you?" I squeak. Yes, squeak. Hey, I'm in fear for my life here. Dignity can go screw itself.

"What, Sherlock didn't tell you about his archenemy," he smirks, saying archenemy with relish. Oh brilliant, another sociopathic jerk. What a way to start the day.

"Where's Sherlock?" I ask, slowly walking to the kitchen, where there are knives.

"Out looking for me. He thinks I want to kill you. Completely wrong, of course, but by the time he realizes that, it'll be too late," he mutters, half to himself. This guy is really creeping me out.

"Who are you?" I ask again, grabbing a knife. He raises an eyebrow at me and acts like he's scared.

"Oh, a knife! Don't kill me!" he laughs sarcastically. I glare and just as the self-satisfied smirk begins to fade from his face, the Bee Gees starts playing. Well, I give him no points for taste. He turns and walks out but turns around at the doorway.

"Tell Sherlock Moriarty says hello!" he giggles and walks away, leaving me to board up the doors and huddle paranoid in the bathroom until Sherlock and John get home.

Needless to say, we're extremely paranoid for the next few days. Sherlock is trying to destroy my sanity by playing violin at obscene hours, John is staying home constantly now and I have this constant fear that something's always near. It's not fun, to say the least.

"Sherlock, what if Moriarty is using me to get to you?" I ask one morning. The fact that he doesn't answer my question tells me something right away. He knows Moriarty is using me. And that fact scares him more than he's willing to admit.

**Well, that had to happen. And now things will actually get sort of interesting. Yay. So, reviewers get rainbows and magic, flamers get fed to unicorns. Love you all, BYEEEEEEEEEEE!**


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